


float

by hikaie



Series: dealer's choice [2]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Making Out, Minor Injuries, Other, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 10:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19766377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: As he got into the shower, he remembered Bloodhound. He’d asked around in the infirmary, only to find they’d apparently discharged themself. It definitely sounded like something they’d do, and certainly reassured Elliott as to their condition, but he couldn’t help being disappointed. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk much since the Legend had dropped a bombshell on him. During the match Bloodhound had returned to normal: stoic, without so much as a head tilt to Elliott’s flirtations.---as in poker, float: calling a bet with the intention of bluffing on a later betting round.





	float

**Author's Note:**

> me: hmm this doesn't seem completely realistic  
> also me: lol who cares i want fluff!
> 
> anyway, here's the sequel! i would probably read the first one before you read this one. it's _also_ not what i intended it to be. ah well guess i'll just have to write yet another sequel. (i actually have an idea for like two more, so, woo!) couple notes at the end too to explain some stuff that i don't want to spoil. enjoy, and also, thanks for all the lovely comments on the last one.
> 
> some light edits were made to this 9/22/19

Elliott has perhaps the worst luck ever.

Okay, one positive to his current situation is that the day’s match had been scrapped, which, above all was a positive in his book. Everything else… kind of sucked.

Octane is getting checked out in the bay across from him. He has about a thousand wires running off of him, nodes attached all over his torso, and he’s driving Elliott crazy. He’s been a nonstop chatterbox since they brought him in. Normally, Elliott would be right there with him, were it not for the concussion he has, courtesy of none other than Octane himself. Aforementioned concussion is preventing him from getting up and throttling the other man, or at the very least telling him off. As it is, he’s trapped- in the infirmary, and in his own head.

Damned if he hadn’t made a lot of mistakes today. The first was going back in the ring so soon- it had been only two days since his last major injury. The wound on his abdomen had healed, but he was still sore. Perhaps his biggest mistake was deciding to run the L-Star in his load-out. It was temperamental at best, and he’d been cocky and distracted on top of it.

He was on Bloodhound’s team again, so of course he was distracted

A couple of blows to his dignity and a literal smashing to his body later, here they were. Elliott’s play, the spread of their team, and sheer bad luck had contributed to them both being downed and in the range of the Repulsor when it had fallen. Bitterly, Elliott accepts had he not been so gung-ho about getting back in the game, things wouldn’t be so miserable at the moment. The exact degree of miserable being: Elliott had totally screwed up his chances of a date tomorrow.

One of the nurses meanders over to him and reminds him to stay awake. Elliott sits up straighter on the bed and nods, which sets his skull to pounding. The nurse gives him a sympathetic look while he checks his vitals, then leaves him to attend to the other patients in today’s very-full infirmary. Elliott breathes through the resounding pain, and glares angrily at Octane across from him.

It feels easier to project his emotions onto the other man. More broadly onto his squad. Post-match has been a whirlwind, but he’s heard the gist of it from the chattering legend nearby- after he’d kicked Elliott’s shit in, Wattson had sniped Bloodhound across the river, and then Repulsor had collapsed. Talk about a showstopper. Regrettably, he hasn’t had a chance to see or talk to his squad mates since he’d regained consciousness in the drop ship.

“Why don’t you take a picture amigo? It’ll last longer.” Octane calls. Elliott realizes he’s been staring too long, but he just mutely flips him off in response. Octane laughs- it’s interesting to see sans mask. They’d been running extensive tests on him so he’s lost all of his gear, down to even his piercings and his prosthetics. Apparently it had something to do with Wattson having to shock him back to life.

“Aw, don’t be a sore loser.” Again, Elliott responds nonverbally. It’s childish in every way, and makes him feel about ten times better. Octane shakes his head, still smiling, and goes back to talking his doctor’s ear off.

Elliott lets his eyes slip closed for a few moments, and his pain dulls to a throb. He knows he’d been under a decent amount of rubble- his body bore the proof in three bruised ribs and a fair amount of already-healed cuts- but he’s more worried about Bloodhound. From what he’s heard, they would have been in range of the collapse and in a lot more danger of sustaining injuries than Octane or Elliott were.

“Definitely not supposed to be sleeping.” Gibraltar’s voice pulls Elliott from his brief respite. He glares at the other man, who smiles. He looks a little rough around the edges.

Elliott wets his lips, and with great difficulty asks, “You good?”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “Anita got me, before the tower came down. Armor caught the first two. Not so lucky with the third.” His squad mate takes a seat next to the bed. “Figured I’d keep ya company. One of the techs says you got a n _aaa_ sty concussion.”

“Mmh.” Elliott groans. His head is like a drum- empty save for a noisy pain clattering around, making itself known. He holds up a hand and attempts to lean to the side toward the tray left there. The motion makes him dizzier and he sways. Gibraltar clasps his hand to steady him and Elliott rocks toward his intended target and promptly vomits.

“Yikes. Better out than in, eh?”

He gives Gibraltar a thumbs up, then resettles himself against the bed. The force of throwing up made his head pound even worse, but he manages to ask, “Bloodhound?”

“Ah, I think they’re still getting patched up.” He squirms in the small hospital chair, his limbs not cooperating with the size and placement. “Haven’t seen ‘em.”

“Clo-cl-” He swallows and winces. “Closer to the tower… than me.”

“Want me to get an update?” Gibraltar seems happy to do so, already standing from the tiny chair so Elliott waves him on. “Be right back.”

Returning to the pastime of glaring at Octane, Elliott ends up losing track of time. He blinks blearily, and in the span of opening and closing his eyes the bay across from him is cleared out, green-haired thrill-seeker nowhere to be found. Shit. He looks side to side, but no one is in his curtained-off area, and the motion makes him dizzy. At least the pain in his skull is duller. He searches for the call button. It takes a few minutes, but a nurse appears.

“Doing okay, Witt?” She glances at the monitor beside him and then makes some notes on his chart.

“Think I fell asleep.” He admits.

“Hmm.” She stares at his chart. “Someone checked on you thirty minutes ago, noted you asked for water?”

He frowns. “I… don’t remember that.”

The nurse smiles. “Just as well. We’re gonna keep you overnight for observation.”

“You seen Gibraltar?”

“Nope, sorry. I’ll have a tech come sit with you, alright?”

When he gives a small nod it doesn’t hurt as much. The nurse heads out, and he leans back into the pillows. Elliott realizes Gibraltar probably came back already and he just doesn’t remember. A few minutes pass before a medtech comes to his bay and sits in the chair beside him. They settle into some work on their tablet. The night passes very slowly, with Elliott’s pain subsiding over the hours. When he’s able to speak clearly and move without complete disorientation, they tell him he can sleep, and so he does.

Everything hurts. This is not an entirely new experience for Bloth, but it has been so long they’d become accustomed to, well, not dealing with it. Pain is still an old friend, though, their time spent together evident in Bloth’s multitude of scars. Now they can feel new ones- starting with an angry burning in their shoulder.

They open their eyes to a darkened, unfamiliar ceiling. Taking quick stock of themself, they recall their final moments in the match- Mirage was dead-ended at the edge of the cliff across from them, waiting for his L-Star to cool, and Octane had been making a roundabout approach. Wattson had taken both their arc star and them out. _Ah._ That explained the shoulder. Bloth briefly recalls the searing pain of the plasma bolt going through their armor, and subsequently their arm, like butter. The force of it had knocked them back into the rocks, and shredded through their shields and most of their health.

After that things feel… foggier. Momentum had carried them down the incline, where they’d fumbled for a Phoenix kit in the shadow of the tiered cliffs. Barely had they started before a shockwave rocked across the arena, briefly interfering with their equipment.

Bloth remembers a large crash, or explosion, and then… nothing.

Pushing up with their left arm they survey their surroundings more closely. It seems they’re in a private room in the medical wing. Their gear is laid out on a counter to their left. Bloth has never been so injured they’ve had to remove the mask. A small current of fear and wonder passes through them as the palm their face, finding no injuries. Still, they feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder. Pain radiates from their shoulder into their collarbone, down through their ribs and the left of their abdomen, finally finding a home in their hips and knee.

With little regard for their aches and pains, they slide out of the bed. They’re able to walk, so they stiffly dress themself in their gear. Outside the room is a short corridor that opens onto a vacant nurse’s station. A whiteboard behind the desk has a few names written on it, including WITT - OBS POST CONCUSS – BED 3A. Bloth continues through the wing slowly, so as not to wake the patients, and stops in front of the only occupied bay with the curtains still open.

Mirage is sleeping seemingly peacefully. The right side of his face is plastered with nanogel packs. Bloth hovers in front of the parted curtains.

Unlucky. That’s what this game had been for them- unlucky in the extreme. They’d been too spread out, too distracted. Now Mirage… now _Elliott_ was injured again, and they were far from in top form themself. An unfortunate mark on their record, but if that’s what fate had decided for Bloth there was no use pondering it too much longer.

“Oh!” A voice exclaims behind them, followed by the sound of something clattering onto the floor. Bloth turns to see a startled nurse bending down to retrieve an empty pitcher “You scared me… visiting hours are over, you know.”

Pain prickles in their ribs. “My apologies.” They murmur. They glance at Elliott in parting, and then make their way out of the infirmary.

“ _Yowch_!” Elliott hisses as he pulls away the last of the gel packs. The skin underneath is tingly and sensitive. There is a small, scale-like web of new scars on his right cheek that he palpates, prodding and stretching his skin to view the way it ripples in the mirror. Interesting. Better than a boot print, at least. There remains some bruising around his eye, though, and the bone underneath hurts to touch.

He leans away from the mirror and sighs. He’d been released from the infirmary a half hour ago, and was now home and looking forward to a shower. The doctors had advised him the headaches would persist, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the steady, dull throb that had started up.

As he got into the shower, he remembered Bloodhound. He’d asked around the medical wing, only to find they’d apparently discharged themself. It definitely sounded like something they’d do, and certainly reassured Elliott as to their condition, but he couldn’t help being disappointed. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk much since the Legend had dropped a bombshell on him. During the match Bloodhound had returned to normal: stoic, without so much as a head tilt to Elliott’s flirtations.

The hot water soothed away some of his pain. He held his head under the spray and frowned. Hadn’t they reassured him it wasn’t a dream? More than that, they showed him their face. Even in _Elliott’s_ vivid imagination, he’d never pictured it, never expected _that_. Perhaps the helmet hair, but not the scars, nor the lovely shape of their mouth, nor the way they looked at him, with eyes so piercing, within their gaze it felt as if all his tricks and flamboyancies were nothing but a farce.

Mirage wasn’t _all_ an act- Elliott had fun with the game. He could be too headstrong, a weakness he capitalized on with his decoys; just send in a clone when he got the urge to run in. It mitigated _some_ disasters. And he got to play _his_ way. Very rarely did he concern himself with disappointing others. The only person’s opinion he cared about consistently was his mother’s. Squad mates came and went; wins and losses were equally possible; responsibility often shifted. Then came Legend status, and Elliott was playing with the big dogs.

Some teammates he really didn’t want to let down.

The more time that passes, the more grandiose the failure becomes in his mind. Last night it had been a minor annoyance, but as he exits the shower and drags a towel roughly over his head, it feels as insistent as his headache. Surely his mother had watched, had probably already sent him a message. (They tried not to always call, to not always feed into the unique panic they shared.) Was she upset with him? She didn’t care whether he won or not… but she cared about him being in danger, no matter what she claimed otherwise.

Then when he’s sitting on the bed, pulling on sweats, his mind turns once more: Bloodhound _has_ to be pissed. Elliott utterly screwed the pooch on this one. Under the layers of uncertainty over where they stood lay the core of Elliott’s fear: disappointment. Hound was a damn good teammate, and among only a handful of Legends that Elliott revered, even respected.

He didn’t want to lose face.

Elliott lay on the bed for a while, his brain going a mile a minute. He knows that he should get up, that he should call his mom, and that he should eat. Every time he thinks about getting up, however, it gets pushed aside in favor of nursing his headache and wounded pride in bed. This goes on until he’s lying on his side, half-asleep, only dragged from his doze by his ringing phone.

He has to go into the bathroom to retrieve it, and catches sight of Wraith on the caller ID. “Hey.”

“You’re thinking too loud.” She says in lieu of greeting.

“I told you that’s creepy.”

“And I told _you_ it’s not mindreading. Several times, in fact.”

“Then don’t word it like that!”

“I’m trying to train and all I can feel is your anxiety.” Wraith’s voice is a huff.

He frowns and walks back into his bedroom. “Wow, way to call me out.”

There is brief static over the line. “Even if I couldn’t feel it, I know you, Ell. You get like this.” So _this_ is her way of reaching out?

“Aren’t we friends? I thought we were friends.” He jokes as he searches for a shirt to wear.

“Well as your friend, I’m asking you to stop moping, and call your mom.” Elliott does love her, but sometimes how blunt she is can hurt.

“Whatever.” Silence. He rethinks his response. “Alright, fine. Are you hungry?”

“I’m going to lunch with Anita when we’re done in the training center. I can ask-”

Elliott pouts. “No way, I don’t want to third wheel.”

Wraith scoffs. “Suit yourself. Hey- where is that place Bloodhound took you the other night? I can’t stop thinking about that sandwich.”

Elliott completely forgot about the food he’d ordered her, but clearly Hound hadn’t. He gives her the best verbal instructions he can and a description of the storefront, and then they bid each other goodbye. After their call he wanders into the kitchen and pulls out the makings of lunch. Before he starts cooking, he docks his phone and gives it a voice command.

“Call mom.”

“Quiet.” Bloth chides. Another squawk is the only reply. They level the raven with a glare. Innocently, he tilts his head and meets their gaze with one beady eye. Bloth deflates.

“Artur, why must you guilt me?” Bloth continues approaching the roost to check his water levels. He shuffles to the side and watches them carefully, deliberately. They continue to murmur at him, to which he is silent. Never had they been separated in this way. Someone apparently returned him to their apartment, but he’d been alone while Bloth was in the infirmary. When they’d gotten in this morning he was making a despondent clicking noise, reminiscent of the sound they often called to him with. Unfortunately, upon _noticing_ their arrival, this had changed to sporadic _quorks_ of varying degrees of anger.

He was _really_ making them feel it.

Bloth had slept some, tossing and turning on the couch. The most recent noise from Artur had been the last straw, however, and now that they’re up they might as well stay awake. Most of their body complains too much to work out; meditation is out as well as soon as they attempt to sit on the hardwood floor and their hips seems to scream.

Perhaps they need a new hobby. Their main source of income, entertainment, and purpose is down for the count for Gods knew how long.

Luckily, after much pacing and one-sided conversation with Artur, a knock on the door saves them.

Seldom do they have visitors. Answering the door is usually very tricky, and involves one of two mask options. They’re already grabbing their helmet when a thought occurs to them. They pause, then approach the door to look through the peephole.

Elliott practically falls through the door when they open it, having been leaning against the jam. “Whoa. Hey. Hey!” He blinks at them, and smiles. “Wasn’t expecting that. Or this.”

Bloth steps to the side and ushers him in. He’s dressed very casually- sweats and a tee shirt, and some kid of house slipper. Bloth doesn’t think they’ve see him in anything less than three layers, not a hair out of place. It’s… not an unwelcome peculiarity. They lean against the door when they close it and watch Elliott try to surreptitiously look around.

Compared to Elliott’s apartment, theirs is fairly spartan. The couch came with the apartment, and there is no kitchen table or stools. The most notable furnishings in the room, in fact, take up the breakfast nook: Artur’s roost and their altar. Politely, Elliott surveys this all in only a few moments then says, “Nice place.”

Bloth smiles. “Thank you.” They cast a glance at their helmet on the armor stand adjacent to the entryway. Ignoring how hard their heart is beating, they push away from the door. Pain twinges in their ribs, though they ignore it. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, uh, I was just coming by to check up on you. Didn’t see you after yesterday’s cata-cast-catro- disaster. But I see you’re good! Like really, good… uh. Anyway. Also I’m sorry? For fucking up that play.”

They shrug. “I have heard the game was overturned? Besides, we all contributed to our untimely end.”

Elliott laughs, though it sounds nervous. “I don’t think it was that much of an even split, do you?”

“It’s just a game.” Bloth frowns. “Albeit a very profitable, high-stakes one, but a game nonetheless. When there can only be one winner, there will always be many losers. And I was… remiss in not noticing Wattson’s positioning.”

He looks at them with an expression they’ve never seen. Cold from the floor seeps in through their socks and they shift, looking away from him at the same time. What does he expect? What does he want? This kind of naked display discomfits them. In their mind they’ve already moved on from the loss.

“I was 26 when you joined the games.” He says. They just give the floor a confused look. “The announcers… they said a lot of great stuff about you. Gassed you up, I think is the phrase? But- but they also said you were pretty bloodthirsty. Kind a lone wolf.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” It’s not like Bloth needs any help recollecting what others paint them as. Rumors and judgments are fine, they suit their needs. It doesn’t matter if, occasionally, they hit too close to home.

Their words fluster Elliott. “Well, they were right.” Before Bloth can do much more than level him with a scathing look, Elliott blurts. “-and that’s okay! You’re one of the reasons I joined. And then getting to know the side of you the public doesn’t see- th-that the games don’t cast- it’s been cool. Wicked, even. And I just… you keep sur-supr-sus- _surprising_ me.”

For a few moments, they stare at him. He’s not looking directly at them, maybe over their shoulder. His hair isn’t held in place by product, for once, and it’s curling over to the wrong side in the back. Suddenly their heart feels over loud in their ears again.

Ever one to fill in an awkward silence, Elliott murmurs, “I thought you’d be mad at me? But I really also wanted to check on you. I think I’ve given you the impression I’m scared of you, or… or intimidated.” He swallows. Bloth _knows_ he’s intimidated, and he must know that they know because he sighs. “Okay, maybe a little, but not like you think. I think? I just don’t want to… let you down.” When they are still silent, he looks a bit panicked, but he smiles. “Also I wanted to apologize for… delaying our date?”

“Are you Mirage?” They finally ask.

“Huh?”

“You- are you Mirage, here, now?” They cross their arms.

“Well… that’s a… tricky question.” Annoyingly, he pats his torso. “Yep, pretty sure I’m me.”

“You play a character in the ring, yes? Not all of it is fake, not all of it real. I’m the same.” Bloth takes a step toward him. Elliott moves his mouth like a fish. Something about getting him to shut up always fills them with pride. “What we do in there is separate from what we do out here.”

Unfortunately, this phrasing is Bloth walking directly into a wall. “And what are we doing out here?” Elliott simpers.

They purse their lips in a valiant attempt to not smile. “What is it that you think we are doing? For my part, I thought I was quite clear.”

Across from them, Elliott blinks rapidly. His eyes grow warm and develop those by-now familiar crinkles at the corners as he bites his lip. They’re quickly realizing that his eyes are their favorite part of him; not just for their color, their expressiveness, but also for the way he’s looking at them right now. Warmth and nerves blossom in their stomach. Four days ago they’d had the courage to show him their face, with every intention of following up on it. Now…

He takes a step closer. “Can I kiss you?”

Bloth thinks about the pain in their ribs. “Yes.” They say, uncharacteristically quiet.

Leaning into their space, he at first presses one chaste kiss to their lips. It’s then that he touches them, a hand on their neck, and his thumb on their jaw tilting them into place for something deeper, more thorough. Four days isn’t nearly enough time to forget how he tastes, how he touches and feels. Really it’s been just enough time to ruminate on it. For them to miss it. Desire it more than they already had, before they had become so desperate for his touch, for _anyone’s_ touch, they’d sought him out.

“Earth to Hound.” Elliott mumbles against their mouth. They can feel the shape of his smile. “I’m putting in some of my best work here.” He begins to pull back, but they uncross their arms and grab his shirt, keeping him close.

“Sorry. Do not stop.”

A little laugh puffs against their lips. “Something you’d rather be doing?” His skin is warm against theirs.

“I’d been rather bored before you got here, actually.”

“Yeah?” Really they have very little height on him, but it’s just enough that he has to look _up_ at them. Their breath catches a little when he smiles, at the intimate slant of it. “You looking for something to do?”

For a moment they share a breath, and then he’s taking their mouth again. The kiss is consuming, hot and wet. He crowds them- _they let him_ crowd them, up against the door with one hand on their neck and the other on their abdomen, and their pained breath gets lost in the slide of their mouths. Bloth finds a better place for their hands, on the back of his neck, unsure if they’re just holding him or pulling him closer. Their noses mash awkwardly as Elliott pulls back, just to change the angle, kissing them so that they moan into his mouth.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about this.” He says, not moving away so that they can feel the words as much as hear them. “About you.” Is the next admission, before they’re kissing again, frantically.

Bloth does grab him now, by the hair, a little tug that makes him moan. They like that noise, so they pull again and he rewards them with something similar, laughter tacked onto the end of it. “Yes?”

“You go so fast, elskan.” They take a moment to catch their breath. Elliott is tracing little lines on the back of their neck with his pointer finger, and it’s making their scalp tingle.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” He pushes against them. If it weren’t for their injuries, the pressure would be a turn-on. As it is, they squirm with mixed discomfort and arousal. “Is this a one-way booty call type of arrangement? I mean, that’s fine, of course, but you gotta let a guy know.”

“No.” They scrape their nails across his scalp and feel him shake against them. Interesting. “That is not what I mean.”

He’s pressing into their touch, so they reward him by running their hand through his hair, down to his jaw. “Alright. You like it… slow then?”

Nodding, they pull him back in. His hand settles at the nape of their neck and cups almost tenderly, drawing them down. This time their mouths meet as one, at a careful angle that Elliott pushes up into. At the same time his leg presses between theirs, his slippered foot angling into the instep of their right one and forcing them to accommodate for him. Their mouth opens on a breath and he licks in, then seems to rethink this and instead gently teethes at their bottom lip. It draws a noise from them and makes them feel weak, their weight sinking into the offered support of his knee between their legs. Sensation prickles down their thighs and up their stomach.

Elliott’s free hand brushes across their abdomen, the sensation muted through their clothes. They’re dressed similarly to him, preferring comfortable clothes in their own home, though they’re wearing long sleeves, and the fabric is thicker. When his hand reaches their ribs they can’t contain a noise of pain, and it makes him draw back, concern written on his face.

“Everything alright?”

Bloth’s face is warm and their mouth still feels wet, not to mention the still-insistent press of his knee between their thighs. The pain eases away when he stops touching them, but so does the pleasant fog settling over them. They could lie, but there’s no way they could hide it for long. “I am still recovering from my injuries.” They admit.

“Oh. _Oh_ , shit. Hound!” It’s unusual to hear _admonishment_ in _Elliott’s_ voice, of all people. He pulls away and they miss every point of contact, from his hands on their neck to the leg he slides out from between theirs. They stand up straight, back against the door, and clear their throat. His hands are now cradled just below their neck, and he flattens them out over their collar. “Why didn’t you tell me it was that bad?”

They frown. “It is not.”

He looks disbelieving. “I barely touched you and it hurt.”

Frustrated, they haul him forward. He stumbles and his breath shudders out of him, and Bloth is delighted to see him flush. “I do not mind.” They take a breath and release their grip on him, opting to lay their hands over his. “Don’t stop.”

Still red in the face, Elliott smiles. “Ohh no, I don’t think so.” He steps back again, but they interlock their fingers and keep him within arm’s length. They do little to mask their confusion. “You made me wait because _I_ was injured.”

“This is not the same.” They argue, still attempting to pull him back in. His fingers squeeze theirs.

“Oh, yeah? So you didn’t get shot in the shoulder?” He even nods towards their injured arm and they narrow their eyes, scoffing.

“Yes, but an arm is much different than your _stomach_ , Elliott.”

“I wasn’t touching your arm before.” He rebuts, and with a sigh they let go of his hands.

“You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Nope.” He lets the ‘p’ pop. With his hands free, he reaches down to adjust the hem of his pants, and they dutifully avoid looking in that direction. Too much disappointment lays down that path. Bloth pushes away from the door and in turn the other Legend steps back. At the very least, he looks as flustered as they feel- his hair is tousled from their wandering hands, his lips pink. To his credit he looks sheepish.

“Bruised ribs don’t take that long to heal at least, right?” They fix him with a silent look, and he shifts from foot to foot. “And we have some time off now…so I can return the favor? Take you out?” His voice goes quiet.

Bloth’s breath stills in their chest. Their lingering arousal turns to something decidedly warmer. “…Yes. That would be nice.”

“Yeah? Cool. Great. I know a lot of good places so we just gotta narrow it down. What do you like? I bet you’re a meat and potatoes kind of person, huh?” They watch his face go all dopey as he tumbles into a rant. “There’s this great steakhouse on the north side of the city. I know a guy who works there, he- hey, what are you doing?”

They’ve taken a step toward him, grabbing his hand mid-gesture. “I am going to take a nap. And you-” They squeeze his hand and start to move around him, pulling him along. “-are coming with me.”

“A nap? _You_ nap?” He lets himself be moved.

“Ah, yes, another one of those surprises for you.” They look over their shoulder to wink at him and he grins. “Plus I have it on good authority you did not make it out of the ring unscathed either.”

“Oh, I’m fine, just a headache-” He pauses at the pointed look they’re giving him. “-but y’know I really could go for a little more rest, couldn’t hurt.” He ups his pace then, nearly bowling them over as they open their bedroom door. A little laugh bubbles out of them at his eagerness.

“Really sleeping.” He reminds them. They nod, and he toes the door shut behind him. Beyond the door, they hear Artur give a short cry. They can’t quite see him in the dimness of the room, but his voice still sounds light as he says, “I don’t think your bird really likes me.”

“That is alright,” they say as they pull him down next to them. His breath leaves him in a whoosh, and then he’s right up beside them, warm and the outline of him just-visible in the dark. “I like you well enough for the both of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. you can actually sleep after a mild concussion as long as you're speaking clearly and have a certain level of coordination, though in this fic mirage's symptoms were just a bit more severe. (as for any other medical stuff in this and any of my apex fics, it'll be very handwavey as it's the future and space and also idc!)  
> 2\. ravens make a wide variety of noises, and when they are separated from their mate are known to imitate their calls!  
> 3\. as a note once again, since i'll be continuing this series, i do hc mirage's first language as french!  
> 4\. part of the edits to this were me uhh... retconning naming/gendering bloodhound's raven without realizing there was canon info at the time of me posting this. r.i.p. & forgive me!


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